‘After she saw us at the bar?’
He nods and gives her a cheeky grin. Her eyes light up. He takes the tips of her fingers in his. She blushes and rolls her eyes.
It feels very much as though they have disappeared off into their own little adulterous world of hearts and flowers as they exchange a goofy look. It’s all very reminiscent of Dillon and his cheating with the barmaid. ‘And the cases? The passengers? The driver?’ I enquire, pushing the hurt to the back of my mind. I am sweating like the winning horse of a Grand National. I wipe the back of my hand against my very soaked forehead, keen to hurry them up. ‘Any news on what to do with them?’
They turn, irritated. She thrusts the clipboard at me. ‘Bloody hell. If you care so much, you do it!’
I watch them stomp off, hand in hand. I glance at the long list of passenger names, hotel names and resort names. I’m a mathematician. I can sort this. It’ll be a simple case of grouping people in hotel order and cross-referencing with the driver the geographical location of each resort. The driver will know what he’s doing. He’s probably done this hundreds of times. Given all the factors, I deduce that it would be statistically impossible not to successfully drop everyone off at their hotels.
‘By the way,’ she yells over her shoulder. ‘The driver can’t read so you’ll need to direct him. It’s a four-hour trip from here to Bodrum. All the road signs are in Turkish. And he can’t speak English.’ She beams facetiously at me. ‘How hard can it be, right?’
* * *
I’m dying. I am actually dying. I eventually arrive at my aparthotel, bedraggled to the core after a six-hour journey through the seven rings of Hell. None of us, me nor any of the passengers, had any clue about directions or how to speak to the driver in Turkish. None of us could read the map. We kept going round and round in circles and the complaints were coming in thick and fast the moment we left the airport and found ourselves on the runway.Terrifying.I’d gone from hero to zero in less than sixty seconds. At one point I thought we were going to veer off the side of a cliff as we scaled a mountain riddled with hairpin bends, while traffic hurtled towards us on both sides of the road. There were copious screams, there was vomit, there was profuse begging to be let off. When we eventually stopped to refuel, at a rather rundown roadside café that positively screamed salmonella poisoning, there were bleak grumbles of resignation, yet the final nail in the coffin had been the restrooms. Literally every passenger, including me, had been devastated to find the toilets were no more than holes in the ground, each with a varying degree of flushing capability.
Horrific. Unbelievably horrific. And no toilet paper. Just as my mum had forewarned.
The driver, white as a sheet and tearful, gives me a wobbly smile as the bus door hisses closed, and he can clock off from what I imagine is the worst shift he’s ever undertaken. He must have smoked at least sixty cigarettes while passenger after passenger refused to get off, complaining that their hotels looked nothing like the ones in the holiday brochures. I felt my heart actually break when we were forced to leave an old couple with walking sticks at the bottom of a hill, their hotel sitting proudly at the top of an almost vertical incline up a thousand stone steps. I was barely surprised when they didn’t so much as thank me for hauling their massive cases to the top for them, or that I’d managed to persuade the porter to piggyback them up the stairs one at a time.
I drag my own case over to the reception desk to check in. ‘Welcome to the Hello Tropicana Banana Sunshine Aparthotel,’ says the receptionist. ‘Please do not put paper down the toilet. Please use the bin provided otherwise you will make many problems. We will charge you for these problems because they are very bad. No paper down toilet. Do you understand, Madd-elly-nine?’ She screws her dark eyes at me from beneath a heavy fringe. ‘You’re very,verylate,’ she says, fetching a room key from the rack behind the desk before turning around a piece of paper for me to sign my name against a room number marked with an X. ‘You have missed the dinner. Restaurant closed. Have a nice stay.’
I slump against the counter. I’m not even going to make any comments on her casual use of hyperbolic language, the ridiculous hotel name or the unprofessional greeting. I’m not. I haven’t the strength or the will to go into the semantics of it. I am literally dead inside.Dead.
‘We had to make a few unexpected detours,’ I say weakly. My mouth is dry, my lips are cracked, and every bone in my body aches from having to heave cases on and off the coach at every hotel while angry passengers audibly composed complaints to head office about me.
‘They left this for you.’ The receptionist hands me a bag of clothes and a note before turning away.
I peer inside. ‘Wait. Is this my uniform?’
She shrugs. ‘No. I think it is a costume for the reps’ welcome party tonight. The party that hotel staff arenotallowed to attend. No free drinks for us,’ she adds snippily.
I read the note.
Meet reception 7p.m.
The words begin to swim before my eyes. I can’t. I’m simply too tired. I can barely stand up straight.
It’s nearly seven o’clock now. I’d need to have a shower. Wash my hair. Change my clothes. Lie with my feet in the fridge. I fan myself with my hand. ‘How do you stand this unbearable heat?’ It’s evening and it still feels like I’ve walked into a preheated oven on full blast. I rub my sleeve across my sweaty head as she looks blankly at me.
‘What heat? We have air-conditioning on full.’ She points to a ceiling fan. ‘Top of the range.’
‘That’s not air-conditioning. That’s just a fan.’ As the words leave my mouth, I can see that I am upsetting her. ‘Anyway. Can you contact whoever is coming to meet me and cancel it, please?’
‘No point.’
‘Look. I’m just so tired and hungry. And dirty.’ I show her my filthy hands, covered in road dust and blisters from the humping of suitcases. The many, many suitcases.
‘No point. Other hotel reception closed. They go home already. Lucky enough to have reps who turn up on time.’ She swivels on her court shoes, her deep brown ponytail swinging down her back, and click-clacks into the back office, slamming the door shut.
So rude.
With the very last of my strength, I lug my heavy case up some stairs to a first-floor apartment, my head swimming with exhaustion as I jiggle the key in the lock and prise the door open with my foot. It swings open.
I gasp.
There must be some mistake.
Dropping my case with a thud to the floor, I sweep my gaze around as tears pool in my eyes. Pristine white walls, immaculate little kitchenette area with light wood Formica bench, two gorgeous, soft-cream sofas either side of a wooden coffee table, and patio doors opening out onto a spacious balcony with views over the sea that is glistening like diamonds as the sun sets on the horizon. Palm trees, terracotta-tiled roof tops and glimpses of winding roads pave the way down to the beach. It is breathtaking. I take a moment to drink it in.
